


[Sheriarty] Only Does The Night's Breeze Remember

by Mad_Sheriarty_fan



Category: League of Gentlemen (TV), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:21:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26644426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mad_Sheriarty_fan/pseuds/Mad_Sheriarty_fan
Summary: This is a translated work see original belowPersonal Settings: Jim Moriarty fakes his death TRF, slight OOC, and dragged Hilary Bliss (by Mark Gatiss) from League of Gentlemen into this Sherlock fanfic ;)(Mycroft: ??? What the hell is a butcher that lookes exactly like me doing in the same universe as me???)
Relationships: Hilary Bliss & Jim Moriarty, Hilary Bliss & Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes/Jim Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Kudos: 4





	[Sheriarty] Only Does The Night's Breeze Remember

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [【莫福莫无差】《只有晚空记得》](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26423107) by [StairwayToHeavenWhereArtThou](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StairwayToHeavenWhereArtThou/pseuds/StairwayToHeavenWhereArtThou). 



The heart is buried in the cave.  
God fools us, again and again.  
The wind whistles past my ears, so does your inevitable face.  
The more I quit, the more I move towards you.

“You going out?” John sip his coffee and dangled his legs on the armchair.

“Yeah. Today’s Thursday.” Sherlock replied as he put on his navy blue coat.  
“See you later then.” John didn't look up and was busy tapping on the computer.

“Goodbye.”

Sherlock and John have been married for a year. For Sherlock's health, the two of them have found a way to get rid of Sherlock's drug addiction. Finally, Sherlock himself came up with the most effective way: he left Baker Street alone for a walk every Thursday night. Scotland Yard is usually nothing important on Thursday. Sherlock left Baker Street for a break: after all, he is not an employee of Scotland Yard.

Then what's Sherlock going out for?

If the city of London is compared to a piece of cloth, it should be a gadget cloth, not a solid colored cloth: elegant small buildings, urban high-rise buildings and dilapidated small bungalows, and residential buildings coexist harmoniously. Sherlock walked out of Baker Street, and turned into a messy alleyway, the words "Roy Street" on the road sign was faint as it was too late to see clearly. Sherlock opened the door of a butcher's shop on the familiar road.

Hilary Bliss, the owner of the butcher's shop, was famous for his special meat on Roy Street: it's delicious and ready to eat, and he only sells this kind of meat privately, and everyone pretends not to know the existence of it. No one knows what kind of meat it is. Sherlock found that the butcher's shop during an investigation. He gathered important clues from the butcher. As he was about to leave, he suddenly turned around and stared at the butcher.” You sell a special kind of meat.”

“That's right. Care to have some?” Said the butcher in a low voice.

Sherlock didn’t know what force dominated him then. He slowly stretched out his hand and spread his palm on the counter. The butcher carefully picked up a box in many plastic bags and put it in his hand. Sherlock came to the store every Thursday.

The butcher's business was still not busy today. The butcher put the prepared box on the counter. "Do you want it cooked?"

“Yes.”

According to Sherlock's usual habit, he will hide the box in his coat, go to a place where he was sure that no one will pass by, take out the box and start chewing slowly, and think of someone who had recently died. Sometimes he sighs with the box in his arms: "You’re gone, the cases you left will all be solved one day, and that’s probably the time when I'll die in boredom." It's like this box is someone's ashes box. It's a very strange feeling to miss your old arch-enemy: you know you were born to defeat him. You were full with the spirit to fight, but after his nemesis’ death, there was an unexpected feeling of loss. He didn’t want to think about it, because he couldn’t stand it. The emptiness inside him growing. Some things were never meant to be…

But today is a little different. Sherlock, who was lost in his thoughts, forgot to pay the butcher, and went back. Just as he approached the door of the butcher's, he heard a familiar voice:

“Did Sherlock find me peeking at him on the side of the building today?”

“No. This is yours. Cooked?” The box clicked on the counter.

“Cooked.” The sound of the microwave oven. The sound of money dropping onto the counter. The sound of footsteps stepping out of the door. The sound of Sherlock's exclamation.

His ears greedily caught all this, completely forgetting that Jim might run away from the door. His mind wasn’t back in his head until Jim gave a tiny gasp of surprise, but it was too late to run. He had to pretend to be calm: "I forgot to pay for the meat, hang on."

After paying the money, the two squatted on the steps at the door and opened the box one after another, wearing disposable gloves.

“His meat is quite delicious.” Sherlock grabbed a piece and stuffed it in his mouth.

“Agreed.” Jim almost raised his hands in favor.

Then they ate in silence. The air was completely silent, only the music often played by the butcher in his shop can be heard other than the sound of them chewing. Jim wants to look for a topic casually: "Well, who is this referring to Tristan and Isolde? I usually listen to rock a little more. You should know more classics.”

“It's the 95th edition of Baren Boym. My mother told me that she had been to the Bayreuth Festival.”

“I can't see that you still like Wagner. You've always played Bach.”

“I don't really like Wagner very much. I just listened to this recording several times in my hand. I still like Baroque more, because Baroque is not so distracted when thinking about a case.”

“Oh.”  
They fell into an awkward situation again. After a while, the music in the store played the short duet of the first act of Tristan and Isold after drinking the poison:

“Tristan!”

“Isolde!”

Jim and Sherlock couldn't help looking at each other, they glanced at their lips with their eyes closed and kissed.

“Oh spiteful bliss!”

"Oh happiness in thrall to deceit!”

The two put their hands on each other's cheeks, entangled their tongues as if they had constrained themselves for too long, and then moved their hands from the cheeks to the back. When they were about to move to the waist, the music stopped and alarmed them: "Cornwall! Hail!" ( Author’s rant: this is really similar to the falling painting in the church in the second season of Fleabag)

The two separated very quickly. Jim blushed and took a deep breath, hoping to calm himself: "I'm sorry.. I don't mean that... I know you're married. Well, I wish you all the best. I'll.. um.. I should be off…” After so many years of consulting criminals, Jim had never said "I'm sorry" to anyone so sincerely before.

“Oh? So there IS times for the proud consulting criminal to have ethics?” Sherlock said strangely.

“Criminals DO have ethics! Or else who’ll want to follow you, and do what YOU want?!" Jim was enraged. He clutched his fist and stared fiercely at Sherlock for a few seconds, with an expression of "going to skin you to make leather shoes" on his face, then turned to leave. Sherlock pulled him to his side by his hand, Jim can feel the rough skin on Sherlock's finger like cocoons because of the violin. The cocoon was slowly squirming, itching to climb into Jim's heart. Jim couldn't help rubbing Sherlock's fingers with his. Sherlock took the opportunity to pull Jim closer to him. The neon lights of the butcher's shop was pink, slightly flashing, illuminating Sherlock's face, and the dark evening sky a pale pink.

The butcher's voice sounded from behind: “I have small flat that I could rent to you boys! It’s a bit bloody because I used to cut my meat there, but you could move in if you don’t mind that…”

2.

Do I have the courage to celebrate the day with you?  
Do you have the courage to break your promise that you're dedicated?  
How crowded is it, just two people.  
It's difficult to keep more secrets.  
Become more stubborn if you can't catch it tight.

"Hmm..." In the corridor, the sound of panting, the sound of banging collisions, the corridor with dried blood, and the dark corridor lights complemented each other. Jim was panting as he looked for the key, though his unsober mind failed him. You’re stupid aren’t you... give it to me... I'll open it..." Sherlock grabbed the key and opened the door.

“So you're sober one...” Jim laughed.

“Who's sober...” Sherlock kissed Jim in vengeance. As soon as they entered the door, they tangled with each other on the green sofa. The nuance of blood spread wildly in the room.

The children upstairs fiddled with the toy car in their hands. The old lady downstairs’ dentures bubbled in its cup. The machine in the factory in the distance was cheerful and loud, its the chimney erupted with fresh steam.

They have rented the butcher's house for half a year. Sherlock's withdrawal reaction after he was clean disappeared completely, only he and Jim know what's going on.

After that, the Irishman took a pan that looked a little worn, and began to fry the meat he bought clumsily. When there is a place to cook, they didn’t have to cut it into small pieces in the store and heat it in the microwave -- at least not today.

“I didn't know you could cook.” Sherlock carefully peered into the box containing raw meat that had not been cut.

“Come on, it’s just steak.”

“Are you sure this.. thing is steak?”

“Whatever meat this is. I’m going to treat it like steak.“ Jim rolled his eyes and said, "Really, do YOU know what kind of meat this meat is?"

“I don't know.”

“Sherlock Holmes didn't know what kind of meat he ate every day~”

“As if you do”

“Well, I don't know either. But it’s nice and it’s not poisoned.” Jim pulled a face to make Sherlock laugh.

“If I hadn't been together with you, I wouldn't have known that you had such a funny side, except Richard Brook and Jim from IT.” Sherlock joked and stepped away naughtily.

“Say that again! Say that again and I'll burn the heart out of you with a shovel!" Jim pulled out the shovel and pretended to hit Sherlock with that. " By the way, Honey, you still haven’t solved the puzzle I gave you~"

The two talked for a while about the puzzle. The meat in the pan gradually becomes brown and yellow under the frying of butter. "The steak is done, but it seems a little burned..." Jim found two slightly cracked plates and loaded them with the steak, then put them on a table that had no tablecloth with sharp corners.

The two sat down to eat without talking for a long time. The duet of Tristan and Isolde could be heard faintly from outside the window from the butcher's.

"Honey?" Jim asked cautiously, "Does... Dr Watson... know..."

“Don't worry, he doesn't know.” Sherlock's hand shook slightly mentioning John.

“With all due respect, why did you marry him at that time...”

This question was unexpected. " Because I loved him.” Sherlock's eyes were focused at his plate, avoiding Jim's eyes.

“You know it's not like this.” Jim's eyes were cold, like two sharp swords piercing Sherlock's heart.

“If you do know, why do you ask?”

“I just want to hear what you say.”

Sherlock put down his knife and fork, forming his pyramid hands against his chin, and looked at Jim seriously: "Okay. I really thought I loved him, or I forced myself to love him, because loving him was equivalent to loving light, loving angels, loving a sunny world, loving the warmth, which is more normal, better, and more blessed by others. I shouldn't have loved you. If I hadn't met you in the butcher's, I would probably suppress my feelings forever, and try to love him.”

Jim was silent. After a long time, he looked up and said, "You know that one day we will have to end. Our relationship"

“I know..” Sherlock looked up, with a trace of sadness in his eyes.

“Not choosing me doesn't mean you have to choose John. You can also leave him and live your own life. We are frightened all day when we’re together, and our work has been affected: a few my people had recently left me for MI6, and I didn’t even notice it – and now its too late; even if you don't say it, I know it, your recent efficiency is almost as slow as Scotland Yard. Can we really live like this? It’s painful. Sometimes I lie next to you and want to jump... down.. from here..”

“I'm sorry... I'm so sorry...” Sherlock's tears formed in his eyes. “In fact, I'm also in pain..."

“So it’s time to separate, isn't it? Wouldn't it be much better to separate now and live with happy memories, than to separate when we were tired of each other and leave in hate?”

“You're right... if you want to go, go. I won't stop you. Don't worry, I can live on.” Sherlock wiped his tears secretly and tried to bloom a smile.

Jim packed his things and strode out of the door. Sherlock sat on the bed, took out a cigarette box, and smoked hard. In a short moment, the box was finished. The room was full of smoke. Sherlock looked at the empty cigarette case and looked up at the bright night sky outside the window. The night sky was clear like a mirror, reflecting his heart. Sherlock suddenly buried his head in the quilt and breathed hevily: there were still a little trace of Jim here. Large drops of tears dropped down, and Sherlock finally cried out loud.

There was still a smell of blood in the room. The house is bleeding. Sherlock's world is bleeding. It's a room full of blood and tears — you will never leave.

...Lost of blood...

...All resuce measures ineffectual...

...Di Di Di Di Diiiiiiiiiiiiiiii

Then the door was thrown open, Jim rushed in with the smell of a drunkard, and lifted the quilt on Sherlock's head and held him. They both cried. They cried together.

3.

I forgive you for being too rational and keeping secrets from me.  
Please forgive me for being so ambitious wanting this relationship to be deep.  
As soon as two people disappear.  
Rumors could never be confirmed.  
Only does the night’s wind remebers.

One Thursday morning, Sherlock and John sat at breakfast. John was reading the newspaper: "What you’re saying now are getting more and more untolerable. And you're so slow on your cases now that Lestrade had begun to assume that you are in collusion with the criminal. I have to explain it every time that you're detoxifying.”

"But if you want to get rid of drugs... isn't it normal to react late... right?" Sherlock explained palely, cutting Benedict eggs on the plate.

At this rate, I think I even want you to stop your detoxification...” John joked. "But you're really strong in willpower, I couldn’t have done it if it was for me."

Sherlock sipped his te.

“By the way, the Times said that Moriarty was back, but two of his men went to MI6 and made some information about him public. Some information was even published in the newspaper. You see --" John turned the newspaper and pointed the news to Sherlock. Sherlock's fork fell feebly on the plate and jumped down the table gently.

“What's wrong?” John asked.

“Oh, I'm just so happy that he finally showed up. It's indeed some quite useful information that can foresee breakthrough progress in many cases.” Sherlock said, very quickly and mechanically.

***

Sherlock and Jim met in the flat from Hilary Bliss, the butcher at night, and tacitly none of them bought the meat. They sat on the sofa, none of them spoke. After a long while, Sherlock finally said, "Did you read the newspaper?"

“Yes.”

“Does your two subordinates know about us?”

“I don't know. Our relationship should still safe for the time being.”

"..."

“Honey,” Jim tried to calm himself down. “We only had two ways to go: either separate and never meet again; or die together. Otherwise we will only destroy ourselves.”

Sherlock continued from there: "And today we have to choose. This is our last chance, or we will lose the right to even choose.”

“Yes, Honey. So... we write our respective answers in our palms. If one of us writes to ‘live’, then we will both live; we all write ‘to die’, then we choose to die. Okay?”

“Okay.”

The two men took their pen and solemnly wrote the answer on the palm of their hands. Finally, the palms of their hands were spread out together, and they looked at each other unbelievably: Sherlock's hand was to live, and Jim's hand was to die.

Jim smiled sadly: "I should have expected it."

Sherlock looked frightened: "I thought you would want to live too."

“Well, goodbye Sherlock.” Jim stood up to leave.

Sherlock suddenly shouted, "Can we try again? Please? Jim!"

Jim had to sit back. This time, the phrase on Jim's hand was ‘to live’, and Sherlock's hand was ‘to die’.

"Why did you..." Sherlock was surprised.

“If you want to live, then live. It’s better. It’s just that I can't leave you. But it’s probably going to be gone after a few days, this feeling.” Jim said lightly.

“I’m sure now.” Sherlock looked very stern. “I know I can't leave you too. So... do it again?"

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“That's good.”

Two identical ‘to die’ on the two palms. It rained heavily outside the window, washing the world desperately with thunder and lightning, as if to erase something. Jim covered his eyes and started crying, so did Sherlock. The two held each other tightly. Their sun of life was about ot set, extremely warm and short. Red as blood, overflows the veins in futile.

The two split up and began to clear all the evidence of their intimacy in the shabby hut. Finally, the two returned to Baker Street, found a suitable place, and forged a battlefield bewteen them, then each of themtook their pistol and pointed them at each other.

“Honey, see you in hell~”

“See you in hell.”

The butcher was cleaning his counter. There was not one customer that went to his shop that day because of the pouring rain. His music player shut down for no reason after playing the song "Death of Love" for the fourth time, making a raspy noise. “Oh, the machine is broken again. It’s best that I stop fixing it... I'd better buy a new one.” The butcher's face was helpless. “When can this bloddy rain stop..."

The butcher sat for another half an hour. “Didn’t I have two regular customers outside Roy Street? Oh, no, I remember wrong. no, no, it's all in the street.” The butcher said to himself, looking at the extra keys on the counter that appeared when he was napping, thought he had put it there, and then put the two extra boxes of meat from the counter back in the refrigerator.

An hour later, the rain finally stopped, but the night sky was dark with dark clouds, as if silently mourning a great loss.


End file.
